


Hale Bait

by ladyblahblah



Series: Come To My Window [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Creeperwolf, Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation, PWP, Voyeurism, no seriously it's just gratuitous porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-17
Updated: 2012-07-17
Packaged: 2017-11-10 03:39:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyblahblah/pseuds/ladyblahblah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is having some much-needed alone time.  Derek interrupts.  Then things get interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hale Bait

**Author's Note:**

> I finished Season 1 and sort of immediately wanted to write gratuitous porn (okay, maybe I've been wanting to do that since before I even started the show SHUT UP), so I put out a call for prompts on Tumblr. This was the first one that came in, and it is EVERYTHING I COULD HAVE DREAMED. For the record, though not explicitly stated, Stiles here is 18. Other than that, all you need to know is: porn. Really, absolutely nothing but porn. Enjoy.

 

 

His bedroom is dark aside from the dim glow of his desk lamp across the room, and the air feels warm and close as Stiles wraps a hand around his cock. He needs this; has needed it all day, needed it since the last time he did it. It's not his fault, he tells himself as his hand begins to move. He's still technically a teenager, and people can't expect him to spend this much time with so many ridiculously gorgeous people and _not_ feel like he's going to explode by the time he climbs into bed.

 

His dad is working late, and there's nowhere Stiles has to be tomorrow, so he's taking his time, indulging in the luxury of lounging in his bed without a stitch on. A fresh, cool breeze is coming through the open window, sliding over his skin and teasing his nipples to hardened nubs. He lets his free hand slip up to pinch and tug at them, scraping a nail carefully over them until his breath catches and his hips lift helplessly off of the bed. 

 

God, he wishes he had more hands, wishes he didn't have to stop that maddening tease to reach between his legs and rub a finger lightly over his hole. It's a good trade off, though, he doesn't regret it, and he draws his legs up until his feet are flat against the bed to give himself better access. Just feeling around, pressing gently at first. There's no need to rush; he has all night. His right hand tightens just a little bit around his cock as his breath starts coming faster, until he's practically panting with anticipation. He hasn't done this very often, not really. It still feels illicitly dirty, makes him feel like he's getting away with something to touch himself like this. The embarrassment is almost as good as the feeling itself.

 

Stiles shifts his legs open wider, thoughts circling fuzzily around the toy he has hidden in his closet, the one he drove two towns away to buy just in case his dad has cut some sort of deal with the shops in Beacon Hills to get a special phone call if his son comes in looking for sex toys, hey, it's not outside of the realm of possibility, okay? Totally worth the trip, though. It feels so good inside of him, stretching him more than he's been able to manage with his fingers. It's small, but he's been thinking about making a trip to get a bigger one; nothing crazy, just something a little larger, and the thought of it is nearly enough to make him come, oh god, he needs to distract himself because not yet, not yet, think about unsexy things, think about—

 

“Having second thoughts?”

 

Stiles lets out a sound that might maybe,  _possibly_ be slightly closer to a yelp than the manly bellow he would've preferred, but he's pretty sure that a sour-faced werewolf showing up at your window when you're in the middle of jerking off definitely counts as  _extenuating circumstances_ . If he had to say one way or the other. Which he totally doesn't, and won't, because clearly he's not going to be telling anyone about this,  _ever_ , except maybe his dad so he can get a restraining order or maybe just a really big, vicious dog, because seriously  _what the fuck_ ?

 

“What the _fuck_ , man?” And okay, that was definitely a screech in his voice, but he's a little too busy scrabbling for the sheet to cover himself to really care. “What are you—you can't just _come through my window_ like that, we've talked about this!”

 

“You left it open.” Derek doesn't climb through the window so much as he's just suddenly _there_ , inside, and Stiles tries very hard to remind himself that arousal is a grossly inappropriate reaction to a home invasion.

 

“Yeah, well.” Stiles gestures vaguely towards the window, the very one which Derek is slowly moving away from. _Stalking_ away from, really, because there's just no other word for it. “It's a nice night,” Stiles manages to finish.

 

“You left the window open,” Derek repeats, like he's trying to erase Stiles's weak-ass response, and there's a growl in his voice now that's making Stiles's mouth go dry. “You left it open while you were lying there touching yourself.”

 

“Um.” There's a _click_ in Stiles's throat when he tries to swallow; he wishes there was a chance in hell that Derek hadn't heard that. “Well, you know, I'm a teenage boy, I think I might actually be legally obligated to touch myself whenever—”

 

“For the past _week_ ,” Derek growls, and there's nothing subtle about it now, “you've been leaving the window open while you get yourself off. I've been smelling it for days. Do you have any idea what that's like?”

 

“Uh. No? Sorry. I'm sorry.” It isn't that Stiles is _afraid_ of him, exactly, but Derek's eyes have started to flash red, and there's just a certain amount of predator fear-response hard-wired into the human brain, all right? A response that should _not_ include his dick jumping in totally inappropriate anticipation, Jesus. “It was for Scott. _Because of_ Scott,” he hears himself babbling. “I mean, I love the guy and all, but there's only so many times you can take your best friend showing up at your window while you're trying to take care of business, right? So he said if I left the window open he'd smell what I was doing and stay the fuck away, because he doesn't want to see that either, and I just sort of didn't think about anyone else smelling it, or that they'd _want_ to smell it, or smell it and come up here to kill me because hey, it's a perfectly natural thing, all right, there's nothing wrong with—hey, what are you doing??”

 

“Stiles.” Derek is actually leaning over the bed now, eyes red and his teeth just a little sharper than Stiles thinks they should be as he grabs the sheet and tugs it away. “Shut up.”

 

“Um.”

 

Derek's mouth twitches into a smirk. “Close enough.” Stiles can't seem to remember how to breathe for a moment, but then Derek is straightening up and stepping away and looking down at him with that mocking look on his face that totally  _shouldn't_ be hot. “Don't let me interrupt,” he says smoothly, settling down in Stiles's desk chair, and really?

 

“ _Really_?”

 

“If you're going to flaunt what you're doing in here, you shouldn't have a problem with someone watching. Don't make me ask again,” he says when Stiles still hesitates, his voice low and rough and full of unspoken authority and wow, okay, Stiles really hadn't thought that would do it for him, but live and learn, right?

 

He wishes now that he'd turned the lights completely off, wishes he couldn't see Derek sitting there silhouetted against the lamp's yellow glow. For lack of other options Stiles closes his eyes as he lies back again, unable to keep his hand from wrapping around his cock again, and unwilling to even try. He can feel Derek's gaze on him like a solid weight, making him breathe faster already. His cock is leaking steadily now, turning his tugs to a slippery slide of skin over skin, and the idea that Derek is just sitting there  _watching_ this has him shaking, hips lifting as he tries to thrust harder into his own hand.

 

“Keep going.” Derek's voice sends sparks shooting down Stiles's spine, and he forces his eyes open. He can't make out Derek's features, not with him sitting in between Stiles and the light, but the line of his shoulders looks tense. “Do it just like you would if I weren't here. Show me.”

 

Stiles's hand is scrabbling at the drawer of his nightstand almost before Derek finishes, finally opening it with a tug so hard the drawer nearly topples out onto the floor. Stiles doesn't care, doesn't give a single flying fuck, because his fingers are closing around the bottle of lube he has stashed there and  _clearly_ that's all that actually matters. He pops the lid open with a practiced flick of his thumb, and after only a moment's hesitation simply pours a long, messy stream over his cock, jumping a little as the slick, cool stuff slides down overheated skin, coating his groin and balls and the crease of his thighs. He hears Derek make some sort of a sound, something between a growl and a choke, and Stiles closes his eyes again with a grin.

 

He brings his legs up again, opening himself to Derek's gaze as he swipes the fingers of his free hand through the lube that's slipped down to pool on his stomach. There's a part of him—a rather large part, admittedly—that can't believe he's actually doing this, actually lying in bed putting on a one-man sex show for Derek Freaking Hale, and when, exactly, did this become his life? When did Derek even get  _interested_ in the Stiles Masturbatory Exhibition Experience? He rubs a slick finger over the fragile skin behind his balls and decides he'll worry about that later.

 

The first finger is easy; he's learned how to relax, how to push out against the intrusion even though that's counter-intuitive, and his right hand slides rapidly over his cock with messy, wet sounds as he starts to pump his finger in and out. It isn't long before his hips are shifting and he's trying to ride it, blindly seeking out more. He licks his lips and leaves his mouth open to pull in deep, careful breaths as he pulls away and returns with two fingers this time. 

 

There's a little bit of a burn this time as he stretches around them, just enough that he enjoys the contrast between that and pleasure, and god, he must look like such a slut. Spread open, humping into his own hands, moaning while Derek just sits there and  _watches, fuck_ . He can't understand why he's not humiliated to be doing this, why all he wants to do is be even dirtier, to open himself further until Derek gets up and fucking  _takes_ what Stiles is offering. Because Stiles has thought about Derek while he's done this before, of course he has, thought about his hands and his mouth and his cock, but it's so very, very different when Derek is only three feet away.

 

“Another.” It takes a moment for the word to make sense, for Stiles to realize that Derek's spoken at all. He can hear the low, constant growl that rumbles out of Derek's chest, and he loses several more moments imagining how that would feel with Derek's mouth around his cock.

 

“What?” he finally says, and there's an ominous creak of plastic as Derek's hands tighten around the arms of the chair.

 

“Add. Another. Finger. _Now_.”

 

Stiles's heart stutters. He's never gone past two before, doesn't know if he can. Even the toy that he's  _definitely_ not telling Derek about, definitely  _probably_ isn't telling him about, doesn't stretch him that much. But the demand, the  _authority_ in Derek's voice is more than he can resist, so Stiles gathers up more lube, flailing just a little bit at the sudden emptiness that hits him, and with a deep breath begins to work three fingers into himself.

 

The stretch pulls a whimpering whine out of his throat, his toes curling into the sheets. He can feel sweat breaking out on his forehead, feel the muscles in his stomach quivering, and he can't breathe, he can't do this, it's too much, too—

 

“You _can_ ,” Derek says, whether because Stiles spoke out loud or because he's just that obvious he doesn't know or care. He shakes his head, thrashing it against the pillow, and Derek growls again. “ _Yes_.”

 

Stiles sucks in a breath and tries again, tries to relax and let it happen, and then oh,  _oh_ , they're in, and it burns but it feels so . . so . . .

 

His hips are moving on their own, rocking into the feeling of being so amazingly, impossibly full. And even this, he knows, is nothing compared to how it would be if Derek would just take those two fucking steps forward. Derek has great hands; Stiles knows, he's done an extensive study on the subject. They're bigger than Stiles's, his fingers longer and thicker, and how would it feel if he had three of them buried deep inside of Stiles right now? He'd know what to do with them, know all the things that Stiles is just starting to learn: how to twist and turn his wrist, where to press, when to pull them out and replace them with his cock, covering Stiles's body with his own as he ruts into him. The thought of that is too much, is more than he can take. Stiles swipes his thumb over the head of his cock once more, and then he's coming, spilling himself over his stomach as his body clenches around his fingers, and a sharp wave of aftershocks steals the breath out of his lungs. It seems to go on forever, shaking him to pieces, the feeling so intense it's almost not even pleasure anymore. He thinks he might be babbling again, but he can't hear anything over the rush of his own blood so he doesn't think it really counts anyway.

 

When he collapses back onto the mattress, tangled in the soaked and filthy sheets, he can't so much as imagine moving. He manages to pull his fingers out, wincing at the sting in his muscles and the hollow feeling he still hasn't gotten used to, and that's all he can manage. He feels boneless and heavy, with sleep already trying to drag him under. The creak of weight on the windowsill rouses him for a moment, however, and he peers over with bleary eyes.

 

“If you're gonna be a creeperwolf,” Stiles half-slurs, absurdly proud when he manages to stretch one leg out, “you'd better be ready to put out next time.”

 

There's a sound that Stiles would call a chuckle, if Derek Sourwolf Hale ever did anything like  _laugh,_ and he pauses on his way out.

 

“Leave the window open again tomorrow.”

 

Sticky and messy and utterly fucked-out, Stiles drifts off to sleep with a smile on his face.

 

  



End file.
